R v James Inkerton (aka Jimmy the Inkster)

Per Justice Upbottom.

The notorious serial killer James Inkerton is today sentenced to thirty-three consecutive life sentences for his heinous crimes. It is often a very difficult thing for us to comprehend how anyone could be capable of commiting acts of vile depravity the likes for which Mr. Inkerton has now been convicted. However, if one looks at the tumultuous adolescence the prisoner endured on account of his most unnatural and unfortunate affliction, then perhaps one may begin to understand how this monster came to be.

Despite growing up in what was (apparently) a single parent household, young James Inkerton had a relatively stable and happy childhood. It was only when he reached puberty that he came to the traumatic realisation that he was not normal. You see, while the other boys his age were joyously flaunting their silky swathes of vanilla creme de man, James discovered, much to his horror, that his organ played a different tune: an inky one. For he had what doctors are now able to diagnose as nigris ejaculatitis, an exceedingly rare semen disorder which causes the sufferer to squirt repulsive jets of viscious black ink at the climactic point of sexual arousal.

Obviously a very embarrassing condition for anyone to suffer, it was particularly the case for James who was at boarding school at the time. At least a couple of times a week he would wake from his usual wet dream of being aboard Los Pescados Cópula, balls deep in the conical stomach of a cuttlefish, only to find his white bedsheets permanently stained with his shady nut. There were only so many times that he could blame this on a 'leaky pen', so he would deliberately assume other ridiculous traits to take the boys' attention away from his far more horrible shortcoming. One of the things he would do was inexplicably point to everyday objects (like a jar of honey) and loudly identify that object in a childish high-pitch voice. For sure he was ruthlessly mocked by his classmates for these idiosyncracies but in their enthusiasm they managed to overlook the soiled bundles of shame that he would take to the dirty linen basket every laundry day.

But if he had managed to conceal his dark secret from the boys, he was less far less successful with the opposite sex. Indeed his early efforts at courtship were all together unpleasant affairs. It became an agonising ritual: panicky foreplay between white, all-revealing bedsheets; brief and unspectacular intercourse; guilt and shame as the hideous seed is spent in the unknowing receptacle; an anxious wait as she squats on the toilet to drain; shrieks of horror for the murky quim now turning the porcelain black. These unpleasant encounters drew him, understandably, to the less-discerning bossom of women with down-syndrome (a path famously well-trodden by Chis Laine). But their guardians soon observed the greasy splatterings running down the girls' hammy thighs and young James was chased out of town by an angry mob and beaten.

Rejected by the world, he became bitter and full of hatred, particularly for womankind for being so cruel about his freakish spooge. And so it was that Jimmy the Inkster was born, the evil killer whose list of crimes so far stand at thirty-three counts of rape and murder (all of his victims were of course women except for one Harrod Sack, his chief tormentor at boarding school). For months the Inkster eluded the police and the country lived under a cloud of inky terror. Fortunately, he eventually became complacent and was discovered by a rabbi named Levi Gillheimer near the scene of his last crime, his hands covered in ink.

It may be worth at this moment reflecting upon the masterful way in which Crown Prosecutor Peppas QC managed to secure the guilty verdict. The prosecution case initially suffered a major blow when expert evidence failed to prove a DNA link between the inky fluids discovered in the various orifi of the deceased (including Sack) by forensic investigators and that of the prisoner. With his case seemingly in tatters, Peppas QC created a stir in the courtroom when he then summonsed the prisoner's mother as a witness. But as soon as Mrs Inkerton entered the witness box, defense counsel objected, citing the well-established rule of evidence that a mother may not testify against her son, which of course I was bound to uphold.

However, Peppas QC then made a most curious application. He asked permission to place a small prawn in the proximity of Mrs Inkerton's snatch. (Upon reviewing the authorities, I could find no principle of law that would prevent this.) He then approached the witness and, removing a squirming crustacean from his pocket, he reached up her dress and placed it on the cusp of her vulva. The court looked confusedly at the bearded-axe wound of the spread-legged witness but nothing much happened at first. Then, all of a sudden, a slimy tentacle tentatively emerged from out her gaping gash, followed soon by the rest of the squid to which it belonged. It quickly seized the prawn and scurried back to its vaginal lair. It was observed that Mrs Inkerton was groaning orgasmically as the phallic tube of the creature re-entered her - in fact, her pleasure was so apparent that it was clear that this squid was none other than Mr. Inkerton Senior, thus solving the mystery of Jimmy's parentage and the cause of his diseased jism.

Now the sight of his dear mother and father in coitus was clearly a very arousing image for the prisoner in the dock. I would just say that I regard this as a perfectly natural reaction for a healthy young man. But for the prisoner, with his most peculiar infimity, it proved to be a fatal one. For it had caused him to thoroughly blotch the front part of his pantaloons with his revolting blackness for all the court to see, thus revealing himself as the dreaded Inkster. And so with another brilliant piece of courtcraft, Peppas QC has again managed to achieve justice for the community.

Bravo Mr. Peppas!

The transactional law

I set out below an entry from this week's obituries recording the passing of a young practioner whom I seem to recall from when he was a clerk at Judge Guttefelch's chambers. He could read well and was widely known to be His Honour's favoured tipstaff. However, rather than choosing the honourable life at the bar, he instead took a position at one of those leviathan firms where it is now learned that he has perished.

Mike Kasminsky (6/6/1980 - 11/9/2007)

Our departed brother would be the first to admit that there was nothing noteworthy about his life except for perhaps the nature of its expiry, it coming to somewhat represent the grim state of affairs now in the city brought on by the sub-prime crisis. Michael J. Kasminsky was hired by Pappas & Pappas to assist in structured products, an area of the law which, despite the claims he would sometimes make, he understood not even a bit. However he soon learned much about the subject by virtue of the 'central' role he would play in these kinds of transactions.

For before the liquidity crunch, lawyers and bankers were still furiously trying to create more and more complex products to feed the seemingly insatiable risk appetite of investors. Inevitably, the search for tighter spreads would lead them to the sphincter of a young lawyer. The transactions that Kasminsky worked on were structured in this way: he was placed into a gimp suit and handcuffed to boiling water pipes in the basement of Pappas & Pappas. Homeless men were introduced to him in the early hours of the morning whereupon he was made to perform various favours of the throat unto them. After they had dropped their bad egg down his throat they would place a few small coins on his tongue by way of consideration. Kasminsky was directed to swallow them thus producing an identifiable cash flow through his rectal tract. Investors would then purchase an interest in those gutty assets, each ranking 'pari passu' (a legal term which means, 'each fist to rank equally').

Life was quite tough for Kasminsky during these times and I am afraid to report that his only sustenance during that period was a merdivore's supper donated to him nightly by his clients. This was not all together a bad thing, the cryptosporidium therein usually triggering explosive bouts of diarrohea making the painful passing of the coins through his stomach far quicker. As some consolation, the product was becoming very popular and Mr. Pappas assured him that he had a good pay cheque coming to him when the transaction was complete.

Unfortunately, his pay day would never come. One night some of his clients attempted to make love to both his eye sockets, thereby blinding him and giving him terrible brain damage. Later that evening, a client became so upset when the motionless vegetable did not attend to his request for a teabag that he gave him a Chelsea grin and administered it himself. Poor Kasminsky's face looked like it had been the subject of an honour killing and the rating agencies promptly issued a downgrade warning. There was immediately a frenzied run on the assets by the investors, which involved nine fists buried deep into his bowels foraging for their cash. His arse suffered an event of default, spilling hot innards all over the cold basement floor and issuing a putrid steam all through the basement. An administrator was duly appointed and, although Kasminsky may still have been alive somewhere behind that eyeless stare and gruesome smile, it was decided in the interests of the creditors to sell his body to the glue factory.

R.I.P.

Crimes of the foreskin etc.

GUILTY: D. Külanzie is convicted this day of dealing in a commercial quantity of lactophallamine, an illicit substance perhaps more commonly known by its street name, "Special C". During the course of the trial, it became shockingly apparent just how easy it is to manufacture this deadly drug.

Külanzie was a member of a secretive church group that came together every Thursday night on the pretense of discussing the scriptures. The other individuals who used to attend have yet to be charged, but in the public interest I shall name them here as Tomas Shardiner and the two gay sons of Wills. What in fact was transpiring on those evenings had very little at all to do with the scriptures. Genitals and poop-flutes were being disgracefully interlocked in ways and combinations I dare not describe, suffice to say that by the time it was all over, much milk had been spilt.

Now even a dog will have the decency to lick clean his groin after he has dropped seed but these degenerates happily let the oozings congeal on their flacidity. Of course this was intentional and is known in the trade as 'icing the tip'. If they were to simply roll over their slimy acorns (each man being 'uncut' and therefor filthy) and let it bake for a few hours, that would definitely make for some very tangy cock-tart. But to cultivate the proper hallocinogen-causing bacteria in lactophallamine the curd must infuse with the shedding foreskin in a hot, high-pressure vaccuum. To achieve this, Külanzie and his associates would wear special tight-fitting pants. It was learned that such garments are easily acquired - one need only go to a toddler's clothing store and buy a pair of pants that an eight-year old boy would normally wear.

Certainly wearing tight pants meant that Külanzie & co were made subject to all kinds of persecutions (every corridor became a gauntlet, dodging arse-flicks, knee rapes and enduring the shrill cries of "who's got tight panties?" and, "somebody's got a hungry bum!") - but there was more than enough consolation for them cooking away in their underpants: a veritable goldmine of calcified cockrust.

The fermentation process takes a few days and then it would come time to test the produce. On more than one occasion, the investigators on this case witnessed Külanzie casually burying his hand in his pants, pretending to re-adjust his suffocating balzack. Retrieving a small sample of camembert, he was observed to roll it between his finger and thumb and surreptiously bring it to his nose for a quick sniff [Special C is generally taken through the nose (hence its original 19th Century name "nutte snuff") but can also be ingested by placing it around one's mouth and gums. Some have also been known to enjoy it as a suppository, Jack Barter in particular].

Once the quality of the drugs had been tested, Külanzie and his operatives would traffic them using a clever distribution network at the church. Being special ministers of communion, they would arrange an early morning mass for their clients and smear their pubic pâte on the blessed eucharist - I shudder at the blasphemy! The junkies in attendance would get their hit by enthusiastically receiving the sacrament directly onto their tongue. The other regular church-goers (most of them geriatrics) also received the contaminated wafers. This caused them violent psychoses, the drugs reacting badly with their medication. Unfortunately, these drug-induced fits often involved the elder parishioners mounting one another in lust at the altar en masse. At first they thought their convulsions were manifestations of the pentacostal spirit and were happy for it. But soon they discovered the horrible truth when Mons. Peppas joined them for mass one day. Upon tasting the unholy bread, he instantly recognised it as dickcheese and he alerted the authorities.

The chief culprit having been brought to swift justice, it would seem that, yet again, we are in a great debt to Mons. Peppas.

A scrotefruit (through its tutor) v The Commonwealth

HABEAS CORPUS - scrotefruit - legal definition thereof - standing of a scotefruit before the High Court - GUILTY PLEA - whether a scrotefruit has capacity to plead guilty - whether said scrotefruit can be fed to the dogs.

The appellant is a scrotefruit, formerly a young man named B____cup, who is being held prisoner at Guano Bay on suspicion of being a sex-terrorist and a member of the outlawed Eel-Qaeda organisation. He was observed behaving suspiciously around the stables. The federal police were contacted and they discovered him attending the rim of a show horse that had been feagued with sea eels the night before. The lieutenant-in-charge sought to apprehend him and when his shovel made contact with the back of the appellant's head, he reported seeing a thick mash of eels, fartleberries and bloodied man-jelly exiting from the mouth and nose. The appellant was arrested for eel-felching (which was retrospectively made an offence this year).

Although charges have yet to be officially laid, the appellant has been incarcerated for the last 6 years and has been made into a scrotefruit. He claims this is unlawful. Let me explain the process of scrotefruitrification, since much of the appellant's case turns upon it: once the suspect has had his intestines searched for eels or other terrorist materiel (by way of disembowelment), a determination is made by the secret service as to whether the suspect is an eligible host for an Eel-Qaeda sleeper cell. If the answer is yes, he is taken to Guano Bay and prepared for his conversion into a scrotefruit. The first step is to stretch the urethra which is usually done with a pair of pliers and a hammer. A bucket of Eel-Qaeda Youth recruits is then pumped into the gaping faucet. It generally takes two or three days for the fry to make their way up the urinal tract. Their wriggling evidentally causes some distress for the prisoner and a practice has now developed of amputating his arms and legs and knocking out his teeth to prevent him from tearing off his own genitals.

The interrogators can tell when the assets have arrived because the prisoner's gonads swell to the size of large papayas. When this happens they are shaven and sandpaper is applied until the skin of his scrote is all but removed and only a thin translucent layer remains. This then provides a perfect panopticon for the secret service to monitor the activities of the young conspirators swimming inside. An intravenous drip attached to the testes provides the eels with more than enough sustenance and amino acids for them to grow into full adults, at which point the sacs become as big as watermelons. However, the prisoner's head and torso receive only a fraction of the nutrients and therefore wither away to a little blob of skin and gristle atop the mature scrotefruit (known as the "stalk"). The stalk's only useful function is as a pituitary gland for the bulging scrotum below - althought it is technically still a basic central nervous system with the capacity to feel a lot of pain and to reflect on its place in the universe.

Finally he is placed on a butcher's hook and hung on a rack with the other scrotefruits in the Guano Bay facilities. The secret service watch over their orchard, on alert for the slightest change in any scrotefruit that may signify an impending terrorist attack. When a conspiracy is detected, the scrotefruit is harvested and taken away for examination. The remaining stalk is now worthless and is given to the dogs, as one would also do with a placenta.

A prisoner's only mode of communication is to blink his (barely perceptible) eyelids because he no longer has the faculty of speech. This is of course a laborious exercise and it took the appellant in these proceedings no less than 3 years for to him to have his appeal to the High Court transcribed by his tutor. Even then, the Attorney-General had it struck out for a typographical error and it had to be re-drafted which took another 3 years. I have now read the appellant's plea. It is a request for a writ of habeas corpus. The appellant asks that he be officially charged and sentenced, ideally, to a swift death. It is said that it is a denial of his fundamental human rights to have his trial delayed in this way.

However, it is a necessary evil in the war on terror that certain suspects who hold important information about Eel-Qaeda be interrogated more thoroughly than is ordinarily consistent with our civil rights. At any rate, I doubt that, as a scrotefruit, the appellant has the standing - or indeed any kind of legal capacity - to request this writ and I note the Privy Council case of Peppas v a tomato.

Certainly it is unfortunate that the appellant has had to have been turned into a scrotefruit. In his affidavit he describes every moment as a living hell with the eels squirming in his nuts giving him the ongoing sensation of being slowly castrated with a blunt knife. But he should take solace in the great service he is doing for our nation and consider it a just and fair punishment for his horse molesterings.

I therefore refuse to issue the writ. Costs to be paid by the fruit.

The resting place of Madame Cassie

Peace be with you! It is your humble servant, Frater Peppas. I apologise for the lengthy delay in my correspondence. I had been away shaving monkeys with Thomas again.

My readers, you will surely think it as odd as me, but I could not help but wonder whether, in some strange way, I was partly responsible for the death of the hoor, whose skeleton was found last month completely raked of it is flesh. (One fat puss remained trapped in her rib cage - silly thing, it had made a glutton of itself in Cassie's chest cavity, stuffing itself with so much viscera that it was too big to make its way out again!)

My own priestly sense of obligation compelled me to visit her lonely grave, a dumpster out the back of a restaurant in China Town. In a sweet gesture, someone had lovingly strewn the bin with hundreds and hundreds of soggy bok choy. Even more touching was the epitaph that had been spray painted on the side of the bin. It was an adaptation of Yeat's poem, The Second Coming, capturing brilliantly the passion of the Arseflower - its tantilizingly brief blooming, its olfactory splendour, and its inexorably withering (which of course, effected Cassie's righteous death):

Turning and turning in the widening sphincter
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere shite-stink is loosed upon the world

Beautiful words.

"Piss on me" by Trough Boy feat. MC Buttercup

After the last post, quite a few readers wrote in requesting me to publish the lyrics to Trough Boy's 2002 cover of A'ha's hit single "Take on me". While it is not strictly on the subject of the law, I thought I would permit this digression just one time. I managed to find the lyrics to the MC Buttercup remix of Trough Boy's "Piss on me". (I could not, however, track down the words to the B-side, the George Michael cover, "Wake me up, before you piss (on me)".) Some of you may remember the catchy rap Buttercup laid down on this version of Piss on me and wonder whatever happened to his music career. I have word that he was arrested in 2005 and was one of the first charged under the NSW state government's new anti-terror laws for eel-felching. His trial awaits.

Talking away
I don't know what I'm to say
I'll say it anyway
today's another day to find you
Shying away
I'll be coming for you love O.K.

Piss on me
Piss me on
I'll be gone
in a day or two

MC Buttercup:
P to the pizzle, D to the drizzle
Straight outta the Grotto
Ma homeboy C to the Cecil
Kickin' it with MC Butters
Yellow fever
We gunna drink up all you muthaf*ckers
Don't need hoes, don't need bling
Drenched in gold, nigga
We got the real thing
All you haters want a bust a cap in his ass,
I'd rather bust a nut
Ya gotta full bladder bitch?
Then put ya hands up!
The Golden Phallus is where its at,
T-Boy in da house
Gotta put a hose on dat
Keeping it real
When he's keeping his gills wet
Baddest goldfish eva
To swim in da toilet
Straight up, mouth fulla wee
This nigga's on fire
Quick somebody piss on me

Piss out.

So needless to say I'm odds and ends
But that's me, stumbling away
Slowly learning that life is O.K.
Say after me
It's no better to be safe than sorry.

Piss on me [MC Buttercup: In da face, in da face now...]
Piss me on
I'll be gone
in a day or two.

ad lib to end

In the estate of Trough Boy v The Golden Phallus Pty Ltd

Editor's note: Reader's will appreciate that, while the substantive facts of the cases reported here are based entirely on true events, the concerned parties may not always be portrayed one hundred percent accurately. By that I mean, occasionally certain proportions of their characters are exaggerated, only to better delineate a complex rule of law. However, the victim in the following case, I can say in all honesty, was every bit a real person. I heard this story from Jack Barter, a shadowy man, curiously well-connected to these kinds of people, but whose testimony I have no reason to doubt. Indeed, upon hearing the tale my interests were so aroused that I made straight for the local Law Library to research the case, an extract of which I set out below. Hear now the harrowing true tale of Trough Boy...

Per Shuute O'Shiite

This is a motion brought by the estate of Trough Boy for preliminary discovery of certain video surveillance footage said to be in the possession of the respondent. The applicant requests the footage so as to be able to properly identify the prospective defendant in a claim in tort for the wrongful death of Trough Boy.

To decide this motion, it might be useful to briefly set out the facts of the substantive proceedings. Trough Boy was born Cecil Pizzhounder on 14 July 1972 in the country town of Breewarina, New South Wales. According to his mother's affadavit, young Cecil had a troubled upbringing, which she ashamedly attributes to her decision at the time to have him breast-fed until the age of fourteen years. I should say, I have yet to read any clear medical evidence that breast feeding a teenager can lead to behavioural problems. I myself suckled my dear mother right up until her recent passing. However I note that in this case the applicant had actually been breast fed by his pre-op Uncle 'Shirley'. To be sure, the boy was as gay as summer plum but his Uncle's milky affections seem to have caused him deeper emotional problems. By the age of seventeen he had been convicted by the Farmer's Court several times for milking the bulls and he was eventually exiled from the town.

The applicant spent the next ten years wandering through the countryside taking animal husbandary work when he could get it. For a while he enjoyed some success with his patented 'oral insemination' technique. However he was unable to continue this method after his jaw was badly broken by a farmer who had witnessed his prize steer undergoing said procedure. He became disillusioned and eventually wound up in the city where he turned a trick outside the Grotto. Yet he always maintained his enterprising spirit. Indeed he is thought to have been the first to use the now popular "honour system" of payment in the Grotto. The idea here is that purveyors of mankunt cut a hole in the backside of the pants and tie a small pouch to their belt, thereby giving their customers the convenience of 24-hour rear access. If the receptacle is overdosing or is otherwise unconscious, the client can nevertheless dispatch his yolk and, if he is an honest chap, slip the fee in the pouch when he is done.

Of course, as the story goes, the applicant was utilising the honour system on the night the legend of The Trough Boy was born. He was bent over a park bench, catatonic from a crystal meth overdose, and in the simulataneous company of seven gentleman. The men were fit and virile and, in short, there was an almighty gut flurry that left the applicant's arse-cup overflowing like a badly-poured beer. Though the men had thoroughly unloaded themselves, they were not yet sated. So it was that one bright fellow resolved to urinate on the applicant. The other six followed and soon he was being drenched in a hot yellow rain. Yet all the while this was happening, Cecil was experiencing a most profound revelation. As he describes in his best selling autobiography, "Tales From The Trough":

Perhaps it was the effect of the drugs but I seemed to imagine that the Seven Knights of Templar were standing above me, knighting me with great long golden swords, shimmering in the moonglight. "Arise," they solemnly pronounced, "Sir Cecil of the Trough!" It was then that I percevied my mission in my life...

Suddenly he regained consciousness and, soaking wet, he got up and ran naked into the distance raving like a lunatic. He went directly to the bathroom of the closest tavern, The Golden Phallus, the respondent in these proceedings. There he dove into the urinal, taking big gulps of piss water, baptising himself in human waste. He begged the patrons to piss on him and, while they were initially reluctant, they soon took to it with gusto and were lining up outside to douse him.

Cecil's fame spread and within no time he was on the bill at every hotel in town and was being hired to perform at parties and weddings. In 2000 he changed his name by deed poll to his "Trough Boy". At the height of his fame in 2002 he released a remix of A-ha's 1985 single "Take on me" (called "Piss on me") which went to #9 on the charts and even supported U2 on their Australian tour. However, this all came to a tragic end in 2004 when he died of syphillus, having undoubtedly contracted it from one of the many thousands of troughs he had swam in over the years. Speaking ex judicio for a moment, let me say this: I am not normally a sentimental man but even I shed a tear when I read the beautiful epitaph above the pisser where it all began, in the Golden Phallus:

This was your place,
Warm liquid waste annointing your face,
Now you are gone, we will surely miss,
Your puppy dog eyes all covered in piss

RIP Trough Boy 1972-2005

Now this leads me to the issue at hand. The estate of Trough Boy intends to sue the syphilitic fiend that killed our dear Trough Boy with his poison piss. Of course we have no way of ascertaining precisely who that person may be. But we do not need to. For it is common ground that Clayton's Rule applies in the identification of a defendant in a wrongful piss-death, that is, first in, first out. This being the case, the applicant requests the respondent to provide video surveillance footage from the fateful night that Trough Boy first announced himself to the world. The man belonging to the very first drizzle across the applicant's face is the proper defendant (regardless of whether he was in fact diseased or not).

It is appalling that the respondent should resist this request for information in these circumstances, given the legendary life that Trough Boy has led. He fought the good fight. I grant the order for discovery and rule that the respondent's solicitor pay costs personally. One final thing I will say is that I have had already had the opportunity to view the surveillance footage in my chambers before trial and would suggest that the man you are after is called Dr. Fictor.